All That's Left
by mydickisthealpha
Summary: When Harry faces Voldemort for the last time, he knows he'll be dying. What he doesn't expect, though, is to come back... and that the only person that can see or hear him is Draco Malfoy. Drarry. Sirimus.
1. PROLOGUE

**.:A**_ll _**T**_hat's _**L**_eft_**:.**

**.:by:. S**_tupefiedNarutard_

_**NOTES: **_I'm not quite sure if anyone has ever done this before, but it came to me while I was listening to a song. I wanted to try writing it, or else it would manifest in my mind negatively. Also, GUESS WHAT SIRIUS ISN'T DEAD. I'm taking liberties. Remus is going to be paired with him in this. So sorry if you don't like it. This takes place at the end of movie/book 7.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and characters affiliated.

_**Summary**_**: **When Harry faces Voldemort for the last time, he knows he'll be dying. What he doesn't expect, though, is to come back... and that the only person that can see or hear him is Draco Malfoy. Drarry. Sirimus.

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><p><strong>.:P<strong> R **O** L **O** G **U** E**:.**

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><p><em>Funny thing about dying<em>, Harry thought as he stepped into the clearing, where the ever familiar red eyes of his lifetime enemy met his own green eyes, _it's not in the least bit scary._

Which was something that anyone would've though hilarious or preposterous, coming from a boy of only 18 years young. Harry had spent basically his entire life fighting for one thing: his life. But, in the end, it turned out, _surprise this is a huge joke on the fate's part, _he was fighting for his _own_ death. Not that he minded much. There were still people that loved him, that he _had _to protect, no matter how unfair it was that he had basically been raised like some animal for slaughter. Hermione, Ron, the rest of the dear Weasleys, even the Malfoys, who looked so pathetic and distraught, but still had enough pride to keep their heads up, deserved to live for something. They could live for _him_, who wouldn't be able to see his next birthday, or have his own family, something that Harry had so desperately clung to throughout his life.

The possibility of a family,_ something normal_. It was something he hadn't properly experienced and so he had been eager, looking forward to being a doting father, a person his own Dad and Mum might've been proud of. He would live with Sirius for a while, though. They would love each other like a family should.

Voldemort was saying something that Harry could barely make out. Everything seemed hushed, in slow motion, like fate really was on his side. No matter what, he'd kill Voldemort, just as surely as he would die _himself_. The scarred teenager felt somewhat numb, like he wasn't really sure what to feel. Was it sad that he was so accepting of his own death? Was it sad that he was already so _tired?_ He thought of Ron and Hermione, who had so much to live for. They had futures. They would receive fame for being his best friends, no doubt, but they would fade into the background after a while, left to live their own lives. If Harry lived after this, he would most assuredly _never_ be left alone. People would want to thank him, to ridicule him, to give him anything but peace, most likely for the rest of his life.

He thought about Ginny, whom he'd broken things off with. He didn't really love her. Well, he did, but not like she wanted him to. Life with her would be too fake. She couldn't possibly understand what he'd been through. Would there be anyone who could? Would there be a soul that matched his perfectly, had he lived past this night?

_No. And that's another reason why this is alright. It's alright. Mother said it would alright. _

Harry glanced at all the other people there, the Death Eaters. Narcissa met his eyes for a moment and Harry saw what looked like pity, like an understanding he wouldn't have expected of a Death Eater. He met her stare evenly, heartbeat heavy in his own ears.

_Did I do the right thing?_ His eyes asked her the question and her darks eyes looked away. She grasped Lucius Malfoy's hand in her own and Harry saw him squeeze it back. His heart clenched in longing. All he ever wanted was unconditional love. Ron and Hermione had found it together, along the way, developed it over years of companionship. They would have a trust and love so deep, Harry was sure nothing would tear them apart.

Lily's hand held onto Harry's shoulder and he closed his eyes. They were there, his father, his mother... all the people who had died for him were there and that's all that mattered.

Taking a deep breath, Harry's eyelashes fluttered back open as a flash of green light came hurtling towards him. He whispered his own unforgivable curse before the green engulfed him, and then all was dark.

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><p>It was like coming up for air after a particularly long time underwater. Everything was blurred, slanted, backwards, and heavy. Darkness frayed the edges of his vision, spinning webs of confusion through his consciousness. Though he was heavy, having been submerged, he still felt much like a feather. Perhaps a hippogriff feather, because he didn't want to be considered weak, whoever he was. He couldn't even remember.<p>

He blinked.

He blinked again.

_Where am I, _he thought, not knowing where he stood... or was he floating? Was he... reclining... in mid-air? He couldn't feel any objects under him- in fact, he couldn't feel anything. Just like he was drifting around with no destination. He couldn't quite understand how that came to be since, he felt like, just minutes ago he had some _purpose_... a _big _purpose, like no one else's. Strangely enough, it didn't phase him. Perhaps he could forget the feeling of that purpose... but it seemed to claw at his consciousness, pleading to be remembered. It wasn't pleasant. Yet he still felt it, like an emotion hovering in his existence.

What _was_ his existence? _Am I real?_ He continued to ponder to himself and wondered if he was actually a he. _Am I just... here?_ _What do I look like? Who am I?_ He looked at what was supposedly a 'hand', how he recollected that he knew not. It was so pale, like he could see through it into the surrounding darkness. Maybe he was just seeing things, maybe his hand was gone. Yet, the limb was so light that he had to believe it was there. It was the only light he could really make out. It _was_ there... wasn't it?

_This place is so void. It reminds me of something, I just can't remember. _The person thought, those ideas floating around his head as if he had spoken them and they were now legitimate objects. Silken smooth or roughly phonetic, the words bounced off those illusory walls surrounding him. It made him frustrated, this boy, but he was also calmed, like it didn't matter what he felt. He was just... _nothing._

But there was something he couldn't shake, something so cold and so deep he seemed to feel it on the skin that wasn't there. He felt it pass through his colorless limbs, where his heart might've been. Nothing in this reality- or unreality- could make this feeling go away. It was...

_Loneliness_. It was something he had felt so many times before, _when?_, that he felt it would never leave him alone. He didn't really want to be here, in this fathomless black, all by himself. But who did he know? Who would willingly come to be with him in this Darkness, with half-masked emotions on the cusp of knowing, but not quite figuring it out?

Suddenly, the blackness turned gray and shapes began forming in thin air, and he hovered over the ground. _Do people usually hover?_ He wanted to laugh at himself, but he wasn't quite sure why. Looking around, he noticed he was at the edge of a very dark looking forest and a very lovely field. There was a castle in the distance which made something in his-chest? Did he have a chest?-hurt and throb with something akin to pain.

He felt like he was missing something very important. Well, for starters, his name was still a mystery to him. Secondly, he wasn't entirely knowledgeable about how he'd actually gotten here, at the edge of this forest, hovering in the air, staring forlornly at a castle. It just seemed right that he was here, no longer shrouded in the absolute madness as he had been before.

He decided that he wanted his feet planted firmly on the ground, so he did as much and then he remembered something beautiful called _walking_. Moving his legs to and fro, _how did I remember that?, _he made his way across the field, but he thought he didn't actually want to go to the castle just yet. There was something pulling him, _not gravity_, towards the other side of the castle. His feet made no noise, though the ground looked rather soggy, as if it had been raining off and on the entire day. He couldn't tell what time it was because it was gray and overcast. He walked for what seemed like only a few minutes until he saw a large mass of more black.

_I don't want to go back in the darkness, _he thought, stopping where he was. _But wait._

It wasn't darkness. These were _people_ and they were dressed in black. _But what for? _His curiosity took over him and he kept walking until he was at the edge of the mass of people. There were certainly a lot of people here. Some of them looked troubled, some looked downright deflated, and some looked curious, standing on their toes to see what was going on. He made his way through the crowd of people, dodging this way and that, to come to the front.

There was a girl at a podium speaking. She was very beautiful, he thought as he watched her. Even in her sadness, tears pouring down her cheeks, eyes red rimmed and puffy, she looked pretty. She had curled, golden hair with matching golden skin, dark eyebrows, and very deep eyes.

_Hermione, _he thought, and it was like he was suffocating as a whole lifetime of memories flooded into his consciousness at once.

He was a human, too. He knew his hand was really actually there, that he had been floating not moments ago, and what his purpose had been. He was Harry Potter...

...and this was his funeral.

He felt so many emotions overwhelm him that he clutched at his chest, though he knew now that breathing didn't quite matter. He viewed the people around him. There was Ron, trying to contain himself, his brothers and Arthur silent and crying beside him, Molly Weasley with a supporting arm around Ginny, both of them openly sobbing. There were people taking pictures, people writing, and—

"Rita Skeeter, damn her and her unfeeling callousness. She doesn't care that I'm dead, just that she's one of the first to get the story," Harry fumed, but stopped short when he saw Sirius, his godfather, on his knees, wailing. It was a difficult thing, seeing such a strong man, someone you loved, reduced to a blubbering mass on the ground. Remus was on his knees as well, but he was hugging Sirius close, whispering words Harry couldn't make out, but could guess at what it was about. Harry's face contorted into pain, he didn't want anyone to feel this way about him.

"H-harry had always been b-brave," Hermione's quivering voice made him look back at her, and his chest constricted. He never wanted to see Hermione cry like this. "He was adamant about saving everyone, no matter how many people were against him. It was h-hard for him sometimes, because people weren't always on his side," she looked at people pointedly at this, like she was making a point, "But he always, _always_ tried his hardest. He knew he was going to die that night, but he still went. And he succeeded... For us! For a-all of us!" Her breath hitched at this and she placed her hands over her face, then McGonagall pulled her away from the podium into a warm hug and sent her to stand with Ron, who kissed her forehead and held onto her.

"Now, we'll have a few words from Sirius Black," the murmurs from the crowd made it known to Harry that Sirius had been cleared of his charges, because the crowd wouldn't have just murmured at his appearance otherwise. Remus helped Sirius to stand and the man made his way up the stairs where he stood for a few minutes, just staring at the mahogany of the podium until he swallowed and began to talk.

"Harry was... the best young man I will ever, ever know. He was so quick to give people second chances, always looking for the good in everyone. He was rambunctious, brave, understanding, and so sure he would fail at defeating the Dark Lord. He was scared every step of the way... but never for himself. He didn't want to hurt other people. He didn't want to see friends and family get hurt. He blamed himself for everything, for every death, for every injury given to people by the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters... But he saved so many lives. I wish I could have been there with him... when he died," Sirius paused here, trying to compose himself, "I wish I could have told him just how much he meant to everyone, how he saved _my_ life, gave me back something to live for." Sirius shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. "Here's to you, Harry, for giving up your _entire_ life for strangers, for friends, for family. I know you're with James and Lily, smiling down upon us."

The crowd seemed to drone with agreement, lament, and grief. There were faces that were crying that Harry didn't even know, had never seen while he was living. There were familiar faces that Harry had assumed didn't care much for him, but they looked just as sad. Hagrid wasn't even crying, just staring at the coffin, expressionless.

The worse part was that Harry couldn't do anything, couldn't say anything. Why wasn't he visible like the ghosts in Hogwarts? He couldn't comfort anyone, no one could see him!

"It's so odd they couldn't find Voldemort _or _Harry's body. Like they both never existed in the first place," Harry heard the whisper and furrowed his brows. There were two girls whispering to each other rather loudly, one a small blonde and the other a brunette.

_What do they mean they didn't find the bodies? _

"Yeah, burying an empty coffin just seems so... unofficial. I wish we'd at least gotten to see Harry's body, so he would be known as a hero in proof of pictures," the blonde said, lifting herself on her toes to view the coffin.

"That's true, but Narcissa Malfoy claimed the light was so blinding they couldn't see for hours afterwards!" The brunette was watching the blonde, who turned to her sharply.

"Shh! She's here you know... with the other Malfoys. They were cleared of their charges, lucky bastards. It was persuasion on Ron and Hermione's part. They said Harry wouldn't have wanted them in Azkaban. I don't believe that," the blonde looked angry, and Harry realized she was wearing a Gryffindor scarf.

"Well, Hermione and Ron knew Harry best, I think," the brunette admitted and they continued to chatter while Harry turned away. His eyes searched the crowd for familiar platinum hair. Most of the funeral were wearing hats or had umbrellas open, as it was sprinkling lightly. It didn't take long, though, for the shining hair of the Malfoys' to reach his eyes. Lucius was expressionless, still haggard looking. _I don't know how long it's been since I've died. It might just be days_. Narcissa looked disquieted, like she was actually affected by his death. Harry tried to look last at Draco, who was looking blankly at the head of the funeral. He had a frown on his face, but there was nothing in his eyes. No sadness, no happiness, just like there was nothing for him to feel.

"You'll probably go home and celebrate," Harry said bitterly. Draco furrowed his brows and looked about, confused. Harry looked at him strangely. He had saved Draco before he went to die. Draco had spared his life _twice_. _What do you think of me, really?_ Harry thought to himself, cocking his head to the side. He shook his head and turned away, making his way to his coffin. His empty, ugly coffin.

All that was left was lowering the coffin into the ground, next to Dumbledore's grave. Harry thought it was nice they do that for him, bury him next to Dumbledore like that. It showed they thought him just as significant as the famous Headmaster. He watched as they lowered it down, someone singing a melancholy tune, while lamenting sobs stabbed into the air. The rain began pouring in earnest and Harry stood there, watching people leave until all that was left were the Weasleys, Sirius and Remus, and Hermione, huddling in the dark. They each placed red and golden flowers upon his grave, whispered words he could hear at the back of his mind. They seemed to stay there until they started shivering from the rain and Arthur, brave man, suggested they all go to the Burrow for dinner and sleep.

Harry glanced back at his grave, feeling helpless.

_Why am I still here?_

But there was no one to answer him.

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><p>AN: I kept it shorter than I usually write because it's just the prologue, to give you a stance on what has happened. _**Please review?**_


	2. The Sign

**.:A**_ll _**T**_hat's _**L**_eft_**:.**

**.:by:. S**_tupefiedNarutard_

_**NOTES:**_ GUESS WHAT SIRIUS ISN'T DEAD. I'm taking liberties. Remus (SO HE'S ALIVE TOO FORGOT TO MENTION THAT) is going to be paired with him in this. So sorry if you don't like it. This takes place at the end of movie/book 7. Lyrics are from Nujabes 'The Sign'.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and characters affiliated.

_**Summary**_**: **When Harry faces Voldemort for the last time, he knows he'll be dying. What he doesn't expect, though, is to come back... and that the only person that can see or hear him is Draco Malfoy. Drarry. Sirimus.

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><p>C H A P T E R <strong>one<strong>

**T** _h e_ **†** **S** _i g n_

_You wanna watch it fall apart_

_Every time I walk, I watch_

_I look, I notice, I observe_

_I read the signs_

_And the signs are pointing in the wrong directions_

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><p>Harry had stared at his grave for hours, rain drops falling around him, <em>through him<em>, without feeling anything. How long Harry had stayed at Hogwarts, wandering around, denying his existence, was approximately a week.

It was hard believing in one thing for a moment, then another, and then having your world turned completely upside down. Well, whatever this existence was. A part of Harry still clung to the thought that this was some sort of thing that happened to all people who died. Perhaps dead people stayed on Earth for a bit longer after their death, just to... well Harry hadn't quite figured that part out yet. But he was absolutely sure there had been some mistake, that they'd delayed sending him to the correct place and would soon pop up and say, 'Oh hey, we accidentally forgot to collect you.' He walked around the campus, through the still destroyed halls of his childhood, thinking '_I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be with my parents. I'm supposed to be at_ peace.' He watched the other ghosts of Hogwarts, but even _they_ couldn't see him. So Harry had just thought, '_Oh well, I'll go along with the joke.' _

He had stayed in that state of delirium for a week before he had the sudden urge to leave. He didn't really know where he wanted to go, he just wanted to get out of there, the place of his life _and_ of his death. So when he'd thought, with an ache he couldn't quite feel in his chest, of Sirius, he appeared suddenly at Grimmauld Place.

One weird thing about being dead, Harry thought, was the fact that he could go just about wherever he pleased. He thought that ghosts were doomed to haunt the places where they'd died, but he certainly wasn't chained to the Forbidden Forest. He had walked out of there as easily as if he'd been alive and he wasn't feeling anything pulling him back there. In fact, all he had to do was think about the place he wanted to be and he was there.

He'd only been there for a few hours, sitting-_hovering_- awkwardly in the living area, when Sirius had flooed in.

"Sirius!" Harry's exclamation was filled with happiness, but Sirius didn't hear him, _couldn't hear him_, and kept walking into the kitchen. Harry stood, distraught, for a few moments before he followed his godfather, who was making himself some coffee. Sirius was moving mechanically, as if this was just something he _had_ to go through, with no feeling on his face at all. Harry hated it. It reminded him that he himself could not feel and he didn't want Sirius to feel this way too.

There were no sensations at all, in fact. He couldn't feel anything, not the cold, not warmth, and he couldn't taste the rain in the air, or smell the musty scent of Grimmauld Place. It was disconcerting, and he rather missed it. This numbness, this nothingness... it reminded him of the darkness he'd been in, of _loneliness_. It felt like being a caged animal, watching other animals play and not being able to participate. But at least he could still think and could still feel emotions. He could still see and hear and, speaking of, he could see a distinct color around Sirius. It was of gray hue, dipping into black every so often. It was interesting to watch, swirling around Sirius like smoke and going through him, like he was a part of it and it was part of him.

Suddenly, Sirius threw his coffee mug into the wall, a deafening crash making Harry jump and watch the china break into fine pieces. Though he knew, if it had been thrown at him, it would've went right through him. Harry swiveled back to Sirius who let out a hoarse sob, raking a hand through his hair roughly, pulling it away from his face. He put that same hand over his mouth, eyes crinkling in what Harry could only call grief, as he choked back tears.

"Oh, Harry..." Harry could make out from between Sirius' cries, and his heart shattered into a million pieces. He moved to touch Sirius, to tell him that he was _here_, he wasn't hurt, but he stopped short, hand paused above Sirius' shoulder. He didn't quite want to know if his hand went straight through some_one_ yet. It would make this all... more real.

"Sirius," Harry said softly, dropping his hand back to his side. "Sirius, it's okay."

But Sirius kept crying for a good while until he remembered he'd busted a glass. Coffee and remnants of the china were still all over the kitchen. Something to do made Sirius' face go blank again and he picked up pieces of the white mug like he was counting them, even the tiny slivers and shards. He sopped up the sticky coffee with a towel, taking a long time to get all of it up. Harry watched him in morbid fascination.

_ So this is what it's like? Am I being punished for something? Did I do something wrong? What did I do? What do I do?_

Sirius made his way upstairs and Harry followed behind him. His godfather moved as if his bones were made of lead. When he finally reached his bedroom, he curled up into his bed like a child and stared at the ticking clock. Harry couldn't take anymore, so he closed his eyes and wished he was far away.

When he opened his eyes, Lucius Malfoy was staring at him.

Call it force of habit, but Harry scrambled back and went straight through Narcissa Malfoy, reaching for a wand that wasn't there. The small moment he passed through Narcissa it felt like he was actually breathing himself and when he came out of the other side of her, he felt like he was choking for air before he realized he didn't have to breathe. He stared at the back of Narcissa's head in shock, watching as a tendril of rose colored water circled her like a snake, passing through her.

_He'd_ just gone _through_ her. So he really wasn't alive. So he _was_ a spirit. This was only further proof.

"Draco isn't eating properly," Narcissa's voice wasn't as he'd imagined it to be. It was motherly and concerned, contrary to the cold, acerbic voice he'd given her in his thoughts. Lucius frowned as she said the words, though Harry had hardly paid attention to what she'd just uttered. His red rimmed eyes, circled in darkness, and scruffy face was so much different than he was used to, even with flames from the fire beside them casting light onto his face. His hair, _Malfoy platinum_, still looked the same, though. It was like he could take care of his hair, but not the rest of himself.

"He tries to eat for my sake, but I can just tell it makes him nauseous. He doesn't want to come out, except for showering, and even then it's brief. Lucius," she sat on her knees in front of his chair and grasped his hands. "I don't want to lose him after all we've been through."

Harry quirked his head to the side, listening out of curiosity. Lucius looked pained, a new expression that Harry thought he'd never associate with the once proud man. However, Harry wasn't exactly visible and this was supposed to be a private conversation. A piece of Harry felt like he shouldn't be intruding, but another part of him was whooping because it served the Malfoys right to have their secrets laid out before him.

"I don't know what you want me to do, Narcissa," Lucius said down at her, holding her hands too. "He doesn't want anything to do with me anymore." The pureblood seemed to be defeated. Narcissa laid her head down on his knees, her hue of rose changing to a silver at his words. Lucius seemed to be silver as well. Harry stepped closer until he came to the side of the chair, so he could see both of their faces.

"Everything has changed," Narcissa whispered, looking pained. Lucius placed a hand in her hair and stroked it softly.

Harry turned away, not admitting to himself that he felt sad for them, and realized he had the entire manor he could look through. It would prove a good distraction from Sirius.

The manor, like Harry had figured, was dark. It seemed to have a deep emerald color scheme, silvers and blacks interweaving to make it forboding enough for a Gryffindor, but just right for a family of Slytherins. There were large archways, the floors shining with dark marble, covered in rugs in the same color of dark emerald that the walls were. Candles lit everything, as well as expensive looking chandeliers, though everything still remained quite dark. There was an odd hush to the manor that seemed to sink into sadness, a desolation left by memories of anger and-

"Murder," Harry shivered, though he felt not. He realized, belatedly, that this had been the headquarters where Voldemort had stayed and had... done his business in. Everything echoed the fear of those that had died here, everything was tainted copper if Harry really looked hard. The remnants of those souls was a bit suffocating, but at least they weren't here anymore. They had long since fled the scary world they'd been in before their untimely demise.

But why had he come here? Why hadn't his wish to be away from Sirius lead him to Burrow instead? Wouldn't he have been comforted better by the warmth that Molly seemed to radiate, or the earnestness of his best friend... former best friend?

_No. Best friend. Current best friend. _

The scarred spirit continued on, until he came to a door that was cracked open. A slightly odd sensation filled him up and he slipped past the door to find a large bedroom... and someone lying on the bed. Harry didn't have to guess that this was Draco. His entire countenance was a celestite hue, shimmering like stars. Harry didn't know if he should be glad to understand that this color wasn't good. The brunette felt a bit weird, being here in his long-time enemy's room, but he scooted close enough to the bed to look at Draco. He looked sallow, pale, dark circles under his silver eyes. His hair was disheveled, most likely from tossing and turning on the bed, and he was dressed in in what looked like a black jumper and dark, pressed pants. His feet were bare and Harry was interested to know that they weren't clawed, but normal, _a normal person's foot._

"Well, you're a right mess," Harry laughed at his joke, and Draco shot up from the mattress, eyes bugging. He threw the covers from himself, _normal_ feet indenting the white of his bedroom carpet, before he stomped right into his private bathroom and slammed the door shut. Harry laughed again, grinning. "It's not like I couldn't follow you in there," Harry said jokingly, wondering why Draco had suddenly went to bathroom. Did he normally wait until he had to pee so bad he had to run to the privy?

He sat-well, hovered on top of-Draco's bed, wishing he could see if it felt heavenly soft like he'd imagine it would be. Not that he imagined Draco's bed all the time, certainly not! He'd thought about how Draco lived during the summer, away from Hogwarts. Did he lay on sheets of silk, people manicuring his nails? Was his room plain, or was it decorated with dark, vile things? Harry looked around... he was disappointed that he saw nothing vile. Actually, the room was kind of plain. There weren't any decorations, aside from the Slytherin color scheme... but that was all over the house. Didn't Draco have any personality at all? Not even a Slytherin Quidditch poster? Getting up, Harry moved around to the other side of the bed, where the windows, covered in silver curtains, illuminated the room.

There was a book case on this side, Harry noted. It was actually substantially large. There were so many books, one could assume Hermione Granger lived here. _But she'd never be caught here_. Harry went to pull at a book, but his hand went straight through it. He sighed, miffed. _Geez, even dead I can't quite get things right, can I? Even other ghosts can't see me. _He opted to look at the titles instead, seeing things like '_Potions, An Extended Study'_, '_Hogwarts, A History_', and _'Poetry Through the Ages'._

"Poetry through the ages... I like poetry, too, Draco," Harry yelled at the bathroom door, but Draco didn't come out. _Of course not, because no one can _hear_ me either. _His thoughts were matter-of-fact, sarcastic even. "I like poetry," Harry repeated while he traced the embossed letters of the title, and longed to see what poems rested on the sheets of paper just outside of his reach. Harry had not been much for learning in school, well, except for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Yet, sometimes, when he'd been in that tent while on his horcrux hunt, isolated for so long, he wished he had a book to keep his mind off of things. Hermione had been immersed in her own book for hours before taking a break. Harry never asked to read it because he knew Hermione had been proud to recieve her part from Dumbledore, and that book was it. Still, it didn't mean he couldn't wish and he had to pull the crisp, musty smell of the library at Hogwarts from his memory. Now, he couldn't even do that. He didn't even remember what smelling was _like_.

Shaking his head, Harry turned and blinked at the bathroom door. _Draco sure is taking his precious time using the loo. Perhaps he didn't have to pee after all. _Harry rolled his eyes. Of course Draco would take a long time in the bathroom. Suddenly, the door opened, Draco looking around like he had something to hide. Harry gazed at him like he was an idiot, because he was, obviously. Pursing his lips, the Chosen One watched Draco come out, shoulders relaxing like he'd figured something out. The blonde frowned, moving to his bed to tidy it up.

It was funny, seeing Malfoy tidy up his own things. Harry realized that his thoughts of Draco in school _had_ been fairly childish... of course, having Ron as a friend didn't quite help that. It seemed like he hated Draco even _more_ than Harry did. Harry's green eyes followed the Malfoy's movements, long-fingered, graceful hands fluffy his pillow and setting it back. No wonder Malfoy was so good at Potions. His movements were light, coordinated, which was needed when slicing ingredients and stirring in complicated motions. Harry remembered Draco being good at Potions, something he'd never really gotten the hang of. Having Snape as a biased Professor didn't particularly help Harry excel, though. Perhaps if he had had some other interest in it. Looking back, Harry realized there might've been a lot of things he would've been interested in, had he not had the background he did.

Draco was coming towards him now and Harry thought maybe he should move, but he didn't. Draco passed through and it didn't feel like it had with Narcissa. This time he was prepared for it, the shock of sharing a breath with someone that was still alive. It felt like being fluid, wisps of his own spirit flowing like ribbons around that of Draco's. It was unnervingly intimate, and Harry felt a tinge of the color he'd been seeing before; celestite, shimmering and melancholy. Draco seemed to freeze and Harry wondered if perhaps he'd felt him there. It was the first sign of someone acknowledging him at all. The blonde turned and they were nose-to-nose, Draco frowning and looking around anxiously.

Harry took this chance to study Draco's face up close. He'd never been so close to him before without trying to hex him or think of some witty comeback. He was_ really_ pale, but it went well with his platinum hair, silvery eyes, and dark clothes. His lips were chapped, parted, and Harry could see a bit of light scruff on his sharp jaw. His nose was a bit pointed, his cheekbones high. Like before, Harry noticed Draco's dark circles, maybe from lack of eating? He definitely was skinnier. Then Harry remembered who he was, who they both were, and backed away, appalled he had been so close without even being bothered by it.

Draco swallowed nervously, but turned back towards his bookcase, hesitating before he pulled out the book of poems Harry had been looking at before. Harry smiled, in spite of himself. Draco moved to his re-made bed and sat in the middle, crossing his legs and opening the book. Harry hovered behind him, so that he too could read the book. Draco read at a languid pace and the spirit found it easy to read the poem before Draco turned the page. There were many different poets, including American poets. Harry crossed his legs in the air as well, propping his hand in his chin. If he was going to be here for a while, he might as well be relaxed.

Harry found that time moved at a sluggish pace. Perhaps it was because, long after Draco had fallen asleep, he was still awake. Maybe it was because his life had moved in frantic heartbeats, while in this existence there was little to worry about, er... besides being dead and being stuck here for no apparent reason. He spent days at the Malfoy manor, and came to understand that the colors surrounding the Malfoys, like it had been with Sirius, were actually _emotions_. That was the only thing Harry could really come up with. The colors changed often, sometimes the emotions on the family's faces gave everything away, and sometimes Harry had to puzzle his way through it. He'd come up with a catalogue of sorts, referring to it in his mind when the colors changed.

Draco's seemed to stay at the same celestite color, shimmering and beautiful. Though, Harry wouldn't admit that to anyone. Not that he could. Still, he did think it was rather fascinating to watch. Only sometimes would Draco's color change to something only Harry could describe as a blush and that was when he was talking to his mother. Harry thought that perhaps the blush color meant affection, because Draco seemed to care for his mother greatly. And _maybe_ Harry felt a bit more respect for Malfoy for it.

Sometimes Harry wondered about what his own colors looked like. Did they shimmer and flow like ribbons like Draco's, move like water as Narcissa's did? Or did they curl like smoke like Sirius'? Maybe his was more like lightening. He laughed at that because the irony of it would be too much and Harry thought he could understand why some people started laughing while they cried.

Draco, like his mother had said, stayed in his room most of the time. He rarely ate, but mostly slept or read a book. Harry was okay with that. He would explore the manor while Draco was sleeping. His favorite person to follow was Narcissa. He thought she'd be vile, being Draco's mother and all, but she was actually very pleasant. There were house elves that she would address like a maid instead of slave of sorts. Her colors were always pleasant, too. She was mostly pinks, though sometimes she'd slip into despair and her water-like essence would dip into Bordeaux or orchid. Harry wanted to hug her then, because he knew she was worried about their future, especially Draco's. She gardened most of the time, pausing to watch the sky or sit at a table, letting her helper house-elf have some tea with her_. Did she treat Dobby like this? _Harry would often ponder. But maybe she didn't, especially if Lucius was watching.

Speaking of, Lucius seldom did much either but sit in a chair by the fire, eat dinner with Narcissa, or walk around alone in his old office, cleaning out papers. He seemed closed down, all of his pride stripped away from him. He was cordial with the house elves, though he refused most of them when they asked if he had need of anything. He dressed in button-up white shirts, and gray slacks, like a business _Muggle_. He seemed to be gray most of the time, which meant maybe aloof, worried? Harry couldn't really tell. The old Slytherin's face seemed to be neutral most of the time.

_If their family was always so separated, then no wonder why they always acted like they had a stick up their arse, _Harry mused to himself dryly. They didn't act like a normal family at all. Not that Harry had much to go on, but he was sure _normal_ families spent time together more often than _this._ Pursing his lips, Harry contemplated how he could possibly get them together. Maybe they just needed a friendly push back together?

Shaking his head, the brunette thought about his own family. He felt guilty about leaving Sirius like that, but he just couldn't stand to watch him like that. Wasn't anyone checking up on him?

_I guess I should pay the Weasleys a visit. I haven't seen them since the funeral. _

"Bye, Malfoy house. I'll be back, don't you worry about that."

* * *

><p>And just like that, he was in the kitchen of the Burrow. Since it was afternoon, the kitchen wasn't bustling with people trying to get to breakfast<em>. They do still do that, don't they<em>? He didn't know. Were they still mourning Fred? Of course George would be. They were the closest. But Harry didn't have to wait long before he saw Molly walking into the kitchen, a light green color fluttering about like a bird. He thought that suited her, essence fluttering like a mama bird preparing a nest for it's babies. Molly was very much like that. Harry hadn't seen much green before, so he'd have to keep an eye out for that meant. She pulled out her wand and pointed it towards the cabinets and-

_Holy Merlin I can feel that, _Harry realized, the magic from her wand sparking and flowing, pulling from lines of magic in the air that were suddenly visible. It was like feeling electric pulses throughout his body and it felt absolutely amazing, given that he hadn't quite felt _anything_ since he'd been dead. The magic was bright, not as bright as it had been when Voldemort had used it, but bright enough. Mrs. Weasley went about the kitchen, pulling out lunch items and making sandwiches as she went. Harry floated, stark still, enjoying the _feel_ of _feeling_.

_I'm being a bit redundant, but oh well._

As soon as she was finished and she stopped using her magic, Harry sighed. If only she'd use it again.

"Lunch is ready!" Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen doorway and Harry could hear footsteps on the stairs. His friends started pouring into the kitchen, looking morose, colors mixing together so that Harry couldn't quite tell who was feeling what. Hermione was still staying with them, Harry realized, and watched as she held onto Ron's hand. He smiled at them, loving that they'd stayed together thus far. They were both known for their tantrums, though Hermione was the logical of the two. They were good for each other, though.

It made Harry want to have a stomach so that maybe he could throw up to get this feeling from the pit of his nonexistant gut.

Everyone looked fairly morose, Ginny seemed to pick at her sandwich. George stared at his sandwich like it was the most boring thing he'd ever seen. Ron and Hermione were the only ones who seemed to be okay and that stung at Harry a little bit. They didn't need him if they had each other, right?

"Remus said he was moving in with Sirius," Arthur said after he swallowed a piece of his sandwich. Harry furrowed his eyebrows. _Since when?_

"Oh, is he? It'll be good for both of them. Merlin knows Sirius needs someone there with him," Molly commented.

_It should be me there. I should be there, _alive_. _

"He's taking..." Arthur swallowed, "everything... quite hard."

"Yes, well, if I know him like I think I do, he feels like an utter failure at the moment. But he shouldn't," Molly chided, not looking away from her sandwich. Harry knew she was speaking in doubles, directing her comment towards not only Sirius, but everyone in the room. All of them were Gryffindor and foolish enough to blame themselves for everything. Everyone in the room was silent and it was a little awkward, even for Harry, who nobody saw.

"We need to talk about Harry," Ginny said suddenly, and Harry looked at her in surprise. She looked determined, jaw set. "We haven't talked about him since the funeral, and we didn't talk about him before that at _all. _We all need some closure, Sirius included. It seems wrong to just completely stop talking about him."

Molly patted Ginny's shoulder gingerly, knowing the girl had had romantic feelings towards the Chosen One.

"Ginny, darling, it's hard on us al-"

"No! We talk about Fred. I miss him, I miss Fred so, so much. We should talk about him. But I don't think it's fair just to talk about him and not Harry. It's like we're trying to force Harry from our heads because we're guilty. Like you said, Mum, we shouldn't feel that way... but we do." Ginny looked as if she might cry and Harry wanted to vomit again. Molly looked at her hands.

Harry looked to Hermione and Ron. Hermione seemed distraught, her colors flaring to an orange-gold. Harry surmised that that must be guilt. She stopped holding Ron's hand in favor of pushing her hair behind her ear nervously. Ron was orange, too, but a different color. Annoyed. Harry scowled at him, despite himself.

"Well, dear... what do you want to say about him?" Arthur asked quietly, smiling gently at his daughter. She frowned, wiping a tear from her cheek.

"I miss him, too," she whispered, and completely broke down.

If Harry could see his own color, he would be orange-gold now. Even though he wanted to be thought of, it hurt him to see people in pain because of him. _Again._

They were all quiet, his friends... no, his family. They were all he'd had... when he still lived.

"Why am I still here?" Harry wheeled on Hermione. Out of everyone, she would certainly know. She was the smartest, after all. But she couldn't hear him, didn't even flinch at his words, his face contorted in rage. He went around to each of them then, screeching. He thought his throat would become hoarse, but it didn't, because it wasn't physical. _He _wasn't physical.

"_AND IT'S SO UNFAIR," _he yelled, swiping at objects, though he could move none of them. He tried to touch his family, but his hand went through them and they didn't move at all. Why could the people he loved so much _not_ feel him? He covered his ears in frustration as they spoke highly of him, tuning out anything the rest of them said, and closed his eyes tightly.

When he opened them again, he was cross legged in front of Draco again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Hey all! I wanted to thank everyone immensely for such lovely reviews! You're all so wonderful! Please drop me a review for this chapter if you can.


	3. Who You Used to Be

**:A**_ll _**T**_hat's _**L**_eft_**:.**

**.:by:. S**_tupefiedNarutard_

_**NOTES:**_ GUESS WHAT SIRIUS ISN'T DEAD. I'm taking liberties. Remus (SO HE'S ALIVE TOO FORGOT TO MENTION THAT) is going to be paired with him in this. So sorry if you don't like it. This takes place at the end of movie/book 7. Lyrics are from Saltillo's 'Giving In'. Saltillo has the BEST songs, I really recommend them. This song particularly reminded me of both Harry and Draco. Please enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and characters affiliated.

_**Summary**_**: **When Harry faces Voldemort for the last time, he knows he'll be dying. What he doesn't expect, though, is to come back... and that the only person that can see or hear him is Draco Malfoy. Drarry. Sirimus.

* * *

><p>C H A P T E R <strong>two<strong>

**W**_ho_** Y**_ou _**† U**_sed__ to_** B**_e_

_You're born, _

_raised and then torn down,_

_to look a little more like everyone you meet._

_And everyday that goes by,_

_you look a little less like who you used to be._

_I don't mind the people staring, _

_cause I know they never see me anyway..._

* * *

><p>It had been a month and fourteen days, exactly, since Harry had died and come back.<p>

Each day was sluggish, each night everlasting. He would trudge about the Malfoy manor, or wallow about the Borrow. Some days, he went to Grimmauld Place, but didn't go inside. He saw Remus coming and going for work, saw Hermione and Ron visit Sirius, _should've been visiting me too_, and watched as Sirius picked up the paper from the stairs. He didn't dare go inside, no matter how much he wanted to, for fear that Sirius might be crying again. He didn't think he could handle seeing it, just the thought of it drove him a bit crazy. So he stood across the street, people walking through him, cars blocking his vision every so often, until he became upset again and found himself somewhere else entirely.

Some days, Harry could barely remember his name, because no one ever said it. Some days, Harry hated both Ron and Hermione, because they never talked about him. Did they even _think _about him? _They are so far into their own world's and each other, they don't even spare me a thought_, Harry reminded himself bitterly. _I shouldn't have died for them, I should've let Voldemort-_

But as soon as Harry thought like that, a horrid sense of self-hatred filled him, like he was made of the distasteful feeling, and he would curl in on himself. He would end up in the Forbidden Forest where he would replay his death, over and over, like it was a movie and he was the critic that _had_ to write the review. _Thumbs down,_ Harry would comment, wishing he could stop watching, perhaps cry, or breathe, or just _disappear_.

Each day he felt like he was losing a piece of himself, like maybe _that_ part of him was disappearing, instead of his whole self. Maybe he would decay until he became just a shadow in the world, forced to watch a place where everyone was happy, _even without him. _

Harry realized, with a start, that he preferred being with the Malfoys, even Draco.

It wasn't like he didn't still love the Weasleys, or Hermione, or Sirius... they just upset him too much. It seemed that being with a party so neutral towards his death soothed him, made him feel more like himself. They were sad, though. Each of them harbored sadness, even though the war was over. They were funny to watch, too. Draco, reading a book alone or humming some melancholy tune to himself as he stared at the ceiling; Narcissa, who told her flowers her deepest secrets, and Lucius who kept reorganizing every facet of his private office. In all actuality, Draco was sharing a book and humming to Harry, Narcissa was telling her deepest secrets to the brunette, and Lucius was just trying to keep himself busy so he didn't have to face the fact that the Malfoy family had come to ruin in _his _hands.

Narcissa's deepest secrets weren't all that bad, and Harry guessed that he didn't blame her for talking to her roses as she pruned them. She told the flowers things like, '_I don't know if Lucius loves me anymore', _and '_I secretly don't think that Muggles are all that bad, I'm just trying to be a good wife'. _She explained to Harry -er, the flowers- that she had never really agreed much with the pureblood dictation, but she'd been raised to believe certain things. After being in Voldemort's presence for the time she had, as well as other purebloods, Deatheaters, she'd come to understand Muggles as simple, uncomplicated things she'd much rather have in her presence than unsophisticated werewolves. She confessed that she was scared for Draco and that she wished she could've had a little girl as well, or perhaps a brother Draco could share secrets with in this time when he didn't want to communicate with anyone.

Harry found himself watching Narcissa's mannerisms, the way she smoothed her dresses and still made her hair and face up, despite the fact that she didn't have any visitors. She certainly didn't go out. Harry had found out, from another confession, that Narcissa wasn't welcomed hardly anywhere these days, even though they'd been cleared of their charges almost a month ago. She supposed that they would _never_ be welcomed. Even places in Knockturn Alley shut their doors on her face when she came to them. She finally submitted to sending her house-elves to shop for them. As long as they didn't utter their master's name, they wouldn't be denied.

Narcissa also took to cooking with the house-elves. She would put on a black, frilled apron and flit about the kitchen with Mitsy, Dot, and Suegar, preparing her family their meals. Harry could tell she hadn't done much cooking, but she really gave it her all and Harry watched, with a smile, as she placed her hands on her hips, proud of her creations. At dinner, she would stare at Lucius hopefully, one eyebrow raised, biting her lip. But he wouldn't say anything and Harry would see her visibly deflate and push her food around on her plate.

Sometimes, Narcissa's colors would drop down to black and her water-like essence would look like ink, raining down over her as she sat on a stone bench in her garden and cried. She didn't openly sob, of course, that was unlady-like. She would just sit and let tears fall down her face, graceful and dignified. At those times, Harry would sit beside her, hands on his knees, not knowing what to do. He tried to touch her shoulder in comfort, but nothing happened, and she continued to look out at the rest of the garden.

But at least she wasn't crying over _him_.

Now, Harry was back in Draco's room, hovering cross-legged over his bed, facing the blonde as he read.

"Your mother is sad," Harry said quietly. He hadn't spoken to Draco since the day the boy had run into the bathroom, so it felt weird. "She cries in the garden because you're a failure and your father is a failure, and you don't even care that you're hurting her."

Draco had stopped reading and, even though Harry spoke bitterly, he felt excited. He swallowed and continued.

"She cooks dinner that you hardly eat. Literally goes into the kitchen and cooks it and hopes that perhaps someone will come in tell her how good of job she's doing, despite the fact that she can't do much else." Harry watched Draco's eyes flitting all over the room, noticed how his hands clenched on his book, knuckles turning white. He saw Draco's mouth parted, breathing quickly. "She sits in sorrow, talking to _roses_ because her own son, who she tries so hard for, won't even get the guts to leave his _room."_

"_Shutup!_" Draco screamed suddenly, throwing his book down and covering his ears with his hands. "I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy," the blonde chanted, shutting his eyes up tightly. Harry stared at him in shock.

"You... you can hear me?"

"I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm _not_ crazy..."

"You _can _hear me! Malfoy, you can _hear_ me!" Harry unfolded himself and crawled, in the air, closer to the other teenager.

"Please just leave me alone. I'm _not_ crazy, I am _not_ like Aunt Bella," Draco whispered and continued his chanting. Harry rolled his eyes. _Merlin, but he's dramatic._

"Malfoy, please, just listen for a moment. You're _not _crazy," Harry paused at this and Draco's eyes opened. He lifted himself a bit straighter, though his hands were still over his ears. "You're _not_ crazy, because if you're crazy, then I'm definitely crazy and I'm pretty sure I'm not. Pretty sure, not one hundred percent sure, granted, but pretty sure." Draco swallowed, letting his hands fall hesitantly from his ears.

"I can't believe you can hear me. Have you been able to hear me this whole time?" Harry breathed, laughing.

Draco was silent, but nodded, unsure. He was still looking around, so that meant that he could only _hear _Harry. But at least he could do that.

"I never thought I'd say this, but Malfoy I could _kiss _you! This is brilliant!" Draco's face scrunched up in confusion at this. He frowned and then Harry watched realization bloom on his pale face.

"... _Potter?_" He sounded like he was squeaking when he said it, but Harry was so relieved he knew who he was that he didn't even care to comment.

"Yes! Yes, it's me! You're the first person who's been able to hear me, Malfoy!"

"B-but... you're _dead_," Draco shivered, silver eyes looking all around his room.

"I know, isn't this great? I mean, not the dead part, but the fact that you know I'm dead, yet you can still hear me? I'm not crazy either!" Harry was elated, wanting to jump up and down on the bed.

"Why are you_ here?_" Draco asked incredulously, celestite color shifting to a moonshadow blue, questioning.

Harry frowned.

"Well, I don't quite know actually," he answered honestly.

"No, I don't mean as a spirit, I mean _in my room_."

"Oh! Well, it's complicated. I don't really think you'd understand if I tried to explain it." Draco swallowed again, still nervous and unbelieving. "Look," Harry started, "I know it's hard to believe, it took me awhile to convince myself that I was actually still here and this wasn't some crazy afterlife... _madness_... but I am."

"You don't watch me get dressed, do you?"

Harry stared blankly at Draco for a while before he burst into laughter. Draco looked a bit offended _and_ worried at that, but Harry choked back laughter long enough to answer.

"No, I don't watch you get dressed or shower or go to the bathroom or any other weird things that you'd like to think."

"I wouldn't _like_ to think that! Salazar, even _dead_ you're haughty and the farthest thing from humble," Draco sniffed indignantly. Harry grinned in spite of himself.

"Whatever you say. You were _so_ scared of me, weren't you? Who did you think I was?" Harry asked, curious. Draco stiffened and his colors flared to bronze.

"None of your business and yes I was _bloody_ scared. Last time I checked, you can _see_ ghosts if they want to be seen, if Hogwarts is anything to go by. But, clearly, you can't even get being a _ghost_ down right!" Draco huffed, crossing his arms.

"It's not like I don't _want_ to be seen! I don't even want to _be_ here!" Harry yelled at him, crossing his arms, too. They were both quiet for a good while before Draco cleared his throat a bit.

"Does my mother really cry and talk to her flowers?" Harry grinned again, shifting back towards Draco.

"And she cooks your meals and makes up her face, and you're too busy feeling sorry for yourself or _whatever,_" Harry emphasized before Draco could interrupt, "to even tell her the food is good or she looks pretty. I'd tell her, but _she_ can't hear me."

The blonde had the decency to at least feel guilty, if his colors were anything to go by. "Why do _you_ care?"

"Because your mother is like any other person. No one deserves to feel _that_ alone in a house full of people. Not even _you_," Harry answered, crossing his legs again. Draco seemed to stare right at him, eyes stormy. He reached for his book, fixing the bent pages before setting it on his bedside table. He fingered a hole in his cover absently. Harry looked at him strangely.

"Why _do _you stay in here all the time?"

Draco continued to pull at the frayed edges of the hole in the cover. "I don't know what else to do, not that it's any of your business."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, Potter, now that I don't go to school and I'm labeled as Death Eater scum and can't even get a _job_, I don't know how to act around my parents. As far as I'm concerned, I'm better off rotting in here than attempting to actually live- and for Salazar's sake, _why_ am I even telling you this?"

"Probably because you're tired of being holed up in a room without anyone to talk to. And you kinda just figured out you weren't going crazy? I mean, I've been feeling a little crazy myself, with no one to hear me and coming back to life and all that..." Draco smirked at Harry's comment and rolled his eyes.

"What if you're not real?" Draco asked, celestite shimmering about him. Harry furrowed his eyebrows.

"Well, I suppose that could be so, but I just can't think of why I wouldn't be real," Harry said, shrugging, though Draco couldn't see him.

"What if you're a part of _my_ imagination?" Draco looked up, trying to see him.

"I'm _not_," Harry emphasized, nostrils flaring. He didn't want to Draco to think like that because what if he was? What if he was part of someone's imagination and this wasn't real and he was forced to be here anyways, feeling _horrid_. It was enough to make his head spin.

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you," Draco said quietly, looking down, light eyelashes resting on his cheeks as he messed with his cover again. He seemed like he was loathe to say it, but also a bit unsure about it.

"I wouldn't have lived long enough to kill Voldemort if you hadn't lied," Harry answered, watching the blonde intently.

"How long have you been here?" Draco changed the subject quickly. Perhaps that had been his way of thanking Harry.

"Since I died, I've been wandering about. Surprisingly, though I'm loathe to admit it, Malfoy Manor is the most... soothing place to be," the brunette admitted and watched for a reaction from the blonde.

"It's because the Malfoys are a distinguished, lovely family to be around," Draco grinned at his own joke.

"Of course, though I wouldn't call you much of a family. You don't even _talk_ to each other," the spirit lifted an eyebrow and Draco nodded.

"Yes, well, we've never been particularly close."

"What about 'wait til my father hears about this!'?" Harry asked, remembering the many times Draco had used that line.

"A lot of purebloods say that, but I hardly ever told my father about anything at school. Maybe something like 'Yes, Father, I'm doing well in Potions'."

"Then why did he want to kill Buckbeak so badly?"

"He was informed that I was injured by Madam Pomfrey's owl, but he was already trying to get the school in trouble regardless," Draco looked unimpressed. He shifted a bit, not focusing on anything in particular. Harry supposed that it must've been a little weird to be talking to thin air. Harry reached out to try and touch his shoulder, but it went straight through it and he sighed, trying not to feel disappointed.

"Will you read your poems out loud?" Harry asked suddenly, and Draco looked surprised.

"That's right, you like poetry, too. As you so boldly announced the other week. Er... right now?"

"Yes," Harry concluded, not wanting to think anymore. Draco wasn't making him leave, wasn't fighting him, and Harry wondered, absently, if perhaps each day Draco lost pieces of himself as well. Instead of being forced into it like Harry, Draco was decaying on _purpose_. Harry thought maybe he should ask, but it wasn't like it was his business anyways.

"Ahem," Draco cleared his throat and opened the book he'd been reading, "'_Whose woods these are, I think I know. His house is in the village, though...'"_

* * *

><p>Harry found himself, a few afternoons later, on top of a sunny hill near the Burrow. He didn't know exactly how he'd gotten there (he'd been sitting with Draco again, after all, the two of them falling into a routine of Draco reading out loud with Harry listening intently), or why it had happened, but he was sitting beside Ron and Hermione. There was a gorgeous sunset just in the view and Harry thought, perhaps, he was intruding on a romantic moment.<p>

"I miss Harry," Ron said suddenly, and Harry looked at him flatly. Hermione glanced at her boyfriend, pulling in a breath and exhaling shallowly.

"I miss Harry, too," she admitted, jaw working slightly, the way she looked when she was thinking very hard about something... or, in this case, someone. "He tried to make me happy... when you were gone from the horcrux hunt, Ronald."

"Yeah?" Ron asked, taking her hand lightly in his and tracing her fingers. She smiled at him, but looked back the sunset, lifting an eyebrow as she talked.

"We were listening to the radio," she grinned widely, looking up, memory dancing in her eyes, "he came up to me, pulled me up, asking for a dance. How could I tell him no?" She looked a bit sad at this. "I was forlorn, pining over _you_," she smacked Ron lightly at that, with the hand Ron wasn't stroking, and he had the decency to look sheepish, "...and I was thinking about how desperate the situation seemed. We were _so_ far from where we were supposed to be." Her dark, doe like eyes looked at Ron to make sure he was listening.

"Go on," he said, reassuring her.

"So he danced with me, regardless of the fact that he couldn't seem to dance correctly. He made me laugh, twirling me around, and for a few moments, for an entire song, which seemed like a millennium... He made me forget where I was and what we were doing," she had started to bow in as she explained the situation, tears springing to her eyes. "He was always trying to comfort me. To make me happy when something upset me. Even when he himself was probably_ dying _inside, he put _me_ first, he put _everyone_ first but himself. I _hate_ him _so_ much for that. But it's something that makes me_ love_ him so much more." Hermione seemed to remember herself, looking up at she wiped salty tears from under her eyes, delicately. Ron squeezed her hand, looking emotional himself.

"Remember how he used to try and shut everyone out because he thought it was_ his _burden only... Voldemort... you know?" Ron asked and Hermione nodded. "It wasn't only _his_ burden. A lot of people made him feel like it _was_, just because some prophecy made it seem like that. He was so stubborn." Ron grinned and the bushy haired woman beside him did, too.

"I really want to make some sort of charity in his name, Ron. Like maybe an orphanage fund for wizards and witches disowned by scared or otherwise unwilling parents. Harry was placed in a horrible home, Tom Riddle was in a bad situation as well that most likely influenced all his decisions... The Harry James Potter Orphanage Fund," Hermione said, rubbing a thumb lightly over Ron's hand.

"I like the sound of that," Ron murmured, cupping the witch's face tenderly. She leaned into him, kissing him soundly.

Harry left.

He appeared at Hogwarts, the place still disheveled and littered with debris. Thankfully, all the dead bodies had been removed before Harry's funeral. He roamed the halls, looking at half-dismantled pictures. Some of the pictures still moved, still breathed with life. He wondered why they stayed here, in such decay. He wondered why _he_ stayed here, in such despair. He reanimated the castle in his mind, thinking fondly of all the adventures The Golden Trio had had together, from the very first, to the very last.

He looked down halls where he, Ron, and Hermione had whispered fiercely about the Sorcerer's Stone. He dropped in on Moaning Myrtle, and for once was thankful no one could see him. They had made their first Polyjuice Potion here, Harry had almost died in the Chambers below. The brunette made his way to the library, where books lay strewn and torn across the floor. Book cases were knocked over, but Harry could still picture it like it was when they'd studied together in third year.

He haunted the Quidditch pitch, replaying every single game, even the embarrassing ones. He peeked into Hagrid's house, where he figured out that the man still lived there. He wasn't doing good though. He was as isolated as Harry himself, though he still kept a pumpkin garden and Sirius had given Buckbeak back to him for company. Harry felt sad that he couldn't comfort the man himself. He wondered if anyone visited the poor half-giant. Buckbeak seemed to stare him curiously and Harry wasn't surprised that the animal, with such sharp eyes, could see him. He didn't go near him, though, just walked past him.

After exploring the rest of the castle, Harry made his way back to the library. He stood, just looking at the books, for a very long time until he had an epiphany.

_I am going to restore this library_, he thought to himself. He couldn't touch anything yet, but he would work at it. He couldn't tire, so why shouldn't he?

He spent many hours trying to pick up a book, one _single_ book, but each time he focused, nothing happened. He tried slapping at it, kicking it, gently picking up one side of it, but nothing worked. He was patient, even when the castle completely darkened. By the time morning came, he'd made the cover of the book flap up a bit, but that was it. He worked at it until the sun was up again, flapping the cover of the worn book repeatedly. It was all he could do.

By sunset, Harry was losing his patience, teetering on madness. He was so miffed that the damn book wouldn't just go in his hand.

"Come on you _bloody_ book, I just. want. to. pick. you. up!"

"You're a worthless book, not even falling into the hands of an avid reader."

"Okay, so I lied, I'm not an avid reader, but I definitely know a few people who _are_."

"I will count to three."

"One... two... three! _Damnit._"

"One... twoooo... three! FUCK." Harry had looked a bit ashamed of himself at that, but carried on, regardless.

"You know what? I DON'T CARE," Harry shrieked, slamming his hand at the book. Though he expected the familiar whoosh of the book cover flapping stupidly, he felt the cool leather against his hand completely and then the book went flying. Sitting there for a moment before realizing what he'd done, Harry whooped and flew over to the book that was lying open. He picked it up, laughing joyously in triumph. He opened the book and then closed it, flipped through the pages, and then closed it again.

He appeared suddenly in Draco's room, the boy sitting on the bed like always.

_"Malfoy_!" Harry yelled enthusiastically and snorted when the blonde threw his own book in the air, grabbing his chest in panic.

_"Salazar_, Harry, you can't just _yell_ at me. I need_ some _kind of warning!" Draco hissed, breathing heavily.

"Er, sorry, but_ look_," Harry urged and he trudged over to Draco's bookcase, flinging a book across the room.

"Hey, these books are expensive, you moron-" but Draco cut himself off. "Were you... you weren't able to do that before, were you?"

"No! I made up my mind to clean the Hogwarts library, because I didn't have much else to do... But in order to do that, I have to be able to pick things up, but I couldn't do it. I worked at it _for hours _but then I got angry and suddenly I could touch things!" Harry rambled in excitement and Draco stared at his bookcase incredulously.

"You made up your mind to clean the Hogwarts library?" The blonde shook his head, but picked up his book, making his way over to the other book Harry had thrown across the room. He picked that one up, too, and made his way over to the bookcase. "Don't throw my books again," Draco muttered. "But, really, how exactly are you going to do that all by yourself? I'm sure the bookcases are ten times heavier than one small book."

"Did you call me Harry earlier?" Harry asked suddenly, remembering Draco's exclamation. Draco scoffed.

"Why would I call you that? You didn't answer my question," he said pointedly, though the effect wasn't much since he was looking in the opposite direction of where Harry was standing.

"Well, I haven't figured it out, yet... But I believe it's possible."

"Why don't you just let someone with magic fix it?" The blonde looked irritated and Harry pursed his lips.

"I don't _want _to," he answered childishly. Draco laughed and Harry liked the way his shimmering essence glittered all the more.

"What, you tired of taking orders now, Potter?"

"As a matter of fact," Harry stated, "I _am_. I didn't get to choose what happened in my previous life, why can't I decide what I want to do with this existence?"

Draco seemed to stare in his direction strangely, an unidentifiable emotion in his eyes. Harry wondered what exactly it was and was about to ask what was the matter when a house-elf knocked at the door of Draco's room.

"Master, tonight's dinner is ready. Will you be taking it in here?" Harry recognized the house elf as Mitsy.

"Yes," Draco answered absently, but Harry made a noise that turned Draco to look his way again.

"You should eat with your family," Harry announced and Draco lifted an eyebrow.

"Wait outside for just a moment, Mitsy," Draco ordered and Mitsy closed the door behind her as she left the room. "Why?"

"Because, like I said before, your mother is sad. I think she would be grateful if you came to eat the dinner she prepared for you."

"I don't know what to say to her," Draco admitted, looking uncomfortable.

"Well, if she can't hear me," he started slowly, "maybe I could tell you what to say?"

"Potter, you're not exactly eloquent or graceful with people. If I remember correctly, in fourth year you spit water out all over yourself while smiling at a potential love-interest."

"You remember that, do you? I think it's a bit different with a mother figure, Malfoy. You can take it slowly, book it as soon as dinner is finished," Harry said with amusement in his voice. Draco seemed to be calculating the pros and cons and Harry lifted an eyebrow.

"Potter, I'm still finding it hard to believe you're here."

"Oh, come _on_," Harry insisted, feeling impatient.

"Right now?"

"She'll be excited if you eat dinner at the table," Harry said matter-of-factly, watching Draco for a reaction.

"How do I know you're not going to make a fool out of me?" Draco asked suspiciously, scowling.

"I really don't have the luxury of pissing you off, Malfoy, you're the only person that can hear me."

"Does that mean you're at my mercy?" Draco grinned sadistically and Harry pursed his lips. Was this what Hermione was always miffed about? Harry had been quite the sarcastic person during life as well.

"Completely, now let's _go_," Harry wished he could pull at Draco, but he didn't know if he had mastered the ability to touch _people _yet.

Draco sighed, straightened his clothes, looking a lot like his mother when he did so, and followed Harry out of his room. He excused Mitsy, who vanished quickly. If he was surprised that Harry knew his way around the manor, he didn't say anything. He followed silently, though Harry could tell he was nervous by his colors. Harry was glad he hadn't put up much of a fight, though he knew Draco didn't have much in him to fight with. He wondered why he himself didn't much care that this was_ Draco Malfoy, _long time enemy, and that he was helping him. Perhaps it was because they had both changed so drastically after the war. And Harry _so _felt for Mrs. Malfoy.

Narcissa had just pulled out her own chair when they made it to the dining room, Lucius already sitting. Narcissa looked startled when she saw Draco standing there, like _he_ was the ghost instead of Harry.

_Well, he _does_ look rather pale,_ Harry snickered.

"Say hello, Draco," Harry instructed and Draco scowled in the direction of his voice.

"Um... Hello Mother," Draco said awkwardly and Narcissa continued to stare at him before she broke out into a smile and hurried over to him.

"Draco, I'm so glad you've come to join us to eat, please, here, sit," Narcissa pulled out his chair for him, a hopeful look on her face. Harry beamed. Draco sat down and thanked his mother softly and she found her way back to her chair. Draco didn't look at Lucius and Lucius didn't look at Draco. It was like some sort of horrible barrier placed in between them so that this awkward event wouldn't be any more awkward.

The spread looked delicious, Harry decided. He wished, in the back of his mind, that he could still eat so that he could taste this food that was made, undoubtedly, with love.

Draco picked up his fork and popped a piece of meat into his mouth. Both Narcissa _and _Harry were looking at him expectantly, watching him chew slowly until his face melted. Harry smiled. He hadn't even told Draco to do that.

"The house-elves must be getting better at cooking because this is delectable," Harry whispered in Draco's ear and the blonde repeated the sentence after swallowing another bite. Narcissa glowed under the compliment and her water-like essence seemed to echo in waves of color, splashing this way and that in happiness.

"She's really happy, Malfoy!" Harry said enthusiastically and Draco glanced at his mother, who seemed to be smiling as she chewed her own food. Draco nodded softly and continued eating. The rest of the meal was relatively silent, though Narcissa's happiness never faltered. Draco actually ate his entire plate, much to Narcissa's delight. The house-elves cleared the table after they were finished and all of them stood.

"Say 'thank you for the meal, Mother'," Harry urged, and Draco said as much to her. Narcissa's face turned motherly and she told him he was welcome. Draco excused himself, fleeing the dining room quickly. As he walked, he grinned and Harry noticed that Draco looked really nice when he smiled.

A few hours later found Draco one the right side of the bed, staring at the ceiling, and Harry on the other side of the bed, doing the same thing. They had been silent for a long time, and Harry mused that it was probably because Draco was thinking about his family.

"Why are you doing this?" The blonde asked quietly, reaching his hand towards the ceiling, splaying his fingers widely. In the darkness, his hand only looked like a shadow.

"Doing what?" Harry asked, watching the long, graceful fingers spread and then close, over and over.

"Helping me with my mother, talking to me? I was horrible to you. I was terrible to everyone," Draco admitted, bringing his other hand up. Harry held his own hands up, too. But they weren't shadows. They were see through and not as entertaining as Draco's. He dropped them to his side and turned his attention back to Draco's hands.

"I dunno," Harry breathed, feeling tired, though he didn't need sleep. "I mean, you didn't particularly have much of a choice, Malfoy. You were kinda taught to be that way."

Draco let his hands fall and he turned his head towards Harry, celestite shimmering madly.

"You don't know me," he said. Harry closed his eyes.

"No, I don't. So why don't you tell me about yourself," the brunette suggested.

"That's stupid," Draco muttered, shifting a little on the bed. He knew Harry was beside him, but he didn't say anything about it.

"What about you? Why are you letting me stay here? Why aren't you cussing me out or figuring out a way to exorcise me or whatever they do to spirits?"

"I don't know," Draco sighed, "the war changed me. Being responsible changed me. Having my life threatened changed me. Watching people die... _changed_ me. I don't care about what I cared about before. I came to a lot of realizations about myself, about my friends, my family. I came to realizations about you, too." The Malfoy wrinkled his nose as if he'd smelled something bad.

"Did you know I'm half-mad and sometimes wish I didn't die?" Harry asked sarcastically, though he really felt that way.

"I realized that I was wrong about you," Draco paused, turning his head away from Harry again. "You might have been a bloody moron, but you _did_ sacrifice yourself for a lot of people, myself included. You didn't let me die in that fire, though you could have. Weasley would've left me. Possibly even Granger. Crabbe and Goyle for sure. But not Harry _sodding_ Potter, proclaimed hero of the ages."

Harry laughed at that, eyes still closed. He rested his hands on his chest, fingers clasped.

"On your funeral, you told me 'You'll probably go home and celebrate'... I didn't. I grabbed a large stack of plates and busted them, one by one," the blonde's voice was laced in fire, "I was _angry_ at you. _You_ weren't supposed to die, that was supposed to _me_. But you didn't _let_ me, you kept me alive so that _I _could suffer in my failure as a _human being_, and you could rest in peace." Draco didn't speak for a few minutes, his breathing labored, as if he was trying not to cry. Harry didn't look at him. "But you didn't rest in peace. There's no failure for you to suffer in, though. You're just... _here_."

"You're wrong," Harry replied, "I failed because I _did_ die. And I couldn't even leave. I _can't_ even leave. I have to watch a life in which I can't really participate, I have to watch the people I love most forget about me, even though I'm _right there._ I am a failure. So many times over."

"I still hate you," Draco groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes.

They both burst into half-hysterical laughter, until Draco went to sleep and until Harry pretended like he could.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Hey everyone! I chugged out another chapter, so I thought I'd go ahead and update as I'll be fairly busy in the next few weeks. I really hope you liked it. I was nervous about the interactions between Draco and Harry. I hope I did alright. Can you drop me a review and tell me what you think? As always, thank you so much for reading and those who are kind enough to review! I deeply appreciate every single person. :D


	4. There Was A Whisper

**:A**_ll _**T**_hat's _**L**_eft_**:.**

**.:by:. d**_ohimdraco_

_**NOTES:**_ GUESS WHAT SIRIUS ISN'T DEAD. I'm taking liberties. Remus (SO HE'S ALIVE TOO FORGOT TO MENTION THAT) is going to be paired with him in this. So sorry if you don't like it. This takes place at the end of movie/book 7. Lyrics are from 'There Was a Whisper' by the BANG GANG.

I'd like to thank the new moon for giving me inspiration, and to the full moon for carrying that thanks heavenwards.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and characters affiliated.

_**Summary**_**: **When Harry faces Voldemort for the last time, he knows he'll be dying. What he doesn't expect, though, is to come back... and that the only person that can see or hear him is Draco Malfoy. [Drarry. Sirimus.]

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><p>C H A P T E R <strong>three<strong>

**T**_here_** W**_as _**† a W**_hisper_

_There was a chill,_

_there was a sound,_

_there was a whisper that I found._

_It went along, wandering..._

_It will return, while I stay, searching._

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><p>Between balancing restoring the library at Hogwarts, which was going painfully slowly because he could only focus on one book at a time, and talking to Draco, Harry was feeling a lot more like himself. Actually, he was feeling more like the him that would've been had he not had a life made of fast-paced pain, loss, and destruction.<p>

Though the two didn't always get along, there was a mutual understanding between the ex-enemies, that neither could find with anyone else; Harry, because he couldn't and Draco, because he wouldn't. Harry found that Draco's company wasn't so bad, even when he was being particularly like his old self, which wasn't often. Like Draco had said, something had snapped inside of him during the war. He didn't care about much anymore. Draco hadn't really talked about his feelings since the night he'd eaten dinner with his family for the first time in a long time.

The brunette stared down at the illuminated face of the Malfoy. Harry had been waiting for a while to wake Draco up. He knew the other wasn't a morning person, but they had a busy day. And Draco would _like_ it. Grinning to himself smugly, Harry leaned over the blonde and-

"I'M HARRY THE EIGHTH I AM, EIGHTH I AM, I AM, I AM," Harry sang obnoxiously, right in Draco Malfoy's ear.

The blonde punched out his arm on instinct, but it went straight through Harry, who laughed heartily at Draco's disheveled appearance. "Sod _off_, Potter," Draco answered, pulling his cover up over his face. Harry rolled his eyes and stood, yanking off the cover. Draco maneuvered his pillow over his head then, and Harry huffed in impatience.

"I GOT MARRIED TO THE WIDOW NEXT DOOR, SHE'S BEEN MARRIED SEVEN TIMES BEFORE AND EVERYONE WAS A HARRY," Harry yelled, greatly out of tune. Draco slammed his arm over the pillow to further smother the ghastly yodeling, but to no avail. Harry continued his rather loud rendition of 'Henry the Eighth'.

"_Alright!_" Draco threw the pillow, which Harry dodged, though he had no need to. The Malfoy sat up, looking around blearily. "Just please stop singing."

"Fantastic," Harry agreed, flopping down onto the bed. Draco watched the bed indent with fascination. It was always weird seeing nothing, but watching things move. He supposed he should have been a bit used to it by now, Harry running around and moving things since he'd figured out he could do it but two weeks ago, but it _was_ interesting.

"Why on _Earth_ have you woken me up so early and what rubbish were you just spouting?" Draco uttered, rubbing his eyes. Harry snorted.

"This isn't early, Malfoy, it's ten o'clock," Harry pointed out, but Draco rolled his eyes.

"Excuse me, that I don't act like some hick farmer and wake up with the sun," the blonde sneered, but it didn't bother Harry. He just smiled in response, bouncing a bit.

"That song is from a movie about a ghost I saw once while living with the Dursleys. I deemed it only right to use against you. Today is the day we leave your room and conquer the rest of the house!"

"Oh?" Draco asked, noting Harry's sarcastic enthusiasm, smoothing his hair down a bit. It was sticking out in all directions and one piece didn't want to cooperate with him. "And why, pray tell, Potter, did you plan this without my consent?"

"You sound like Snape, stop," Harry joked, though he tinged his voice with disdain. "Anyways, I thought it would be beneficial that you start leaving your room more often. Why not start on a lovely Monday morning?"

"You're so _wrong_, everyone knows Mondays are anything but lovely," Draco replied, standing from his bed and pulling the sheets up, tidying it, despite the fact that Harry still sat on it. Harry flattened himself against the bed, making it hard for Draco to tug the covers over his pillow.

"As proclaimed hero of the ages, I have to rescue you from your Slytherin despair," Harry chortled and Draco scowled at him, pulling at the sheets harder until Harry released the weight of himself. Draco stumbled a bit and scowled in Harry's direction.

"I don't need _rescuing _from _despair_. I'm perfectly content to stay in my _room_," the blonde sniffled indignantly as he made his way to the bathroom. Shutting the door in the spirit's face, Harry leaned against it, still talking.

"Well, your _mother_ isn't perfectly content with you staying in your room. Appearances at dinner are nice, but she's not going to be happy if she only sees you each day for 30 minutes at tops. Plus, I know you love your mother, if your colors are anything to go by," Harry glanced at the nails of his fingers. Had his body been in that coffin and not dust in the wind, his nails would still be growing. Harry wrinkled his nose at that thought. He'd look like some sort of rock group from the eighties by now, except a lot more emaciated and... rotten.

"My _what?_" Draco asked as he opened the door quickly, but instead of falling, Harry simply floated where he stood.

"Your colors. Your, er, emotions...? Huh... well, I guess now that I think about it, it's a little hard to explain. All people whom are alive exhibit these auras that you can read, if you pay attention. They're like emotions, but more the essence of your personality. I like to refer to them as souls, because that's all that makes sense to me, really," Harry finished lamely, not able to capture what he was trying to say. Draco looked in his direction like he was crazy and Harry shrugged for his own benefit.

"So you can tell what I'm feeling all the time?" Draco asked, looking uncomfortable.

"Basically, yes, I guess you could say that," Harry answered, watching Draco for his reaction. He remained uncomfortable looking and his color matched his expression, but he shut the door again in Harry's face. Harry rolled his eyes and flopped back onto the bed while Draco showered.

Harry was determined to fix Draco's family. They were all just too stubborn and closed off to do it themselves. The family was fractured and since Harry would never have a real family of his own, he thought that maybe he could try and make someone else's family more together. Narcissa surely didn't deserve to live like this for the rest of her life.

_Neither does Draco_, Harry thought, and though he wanted to do it grudgingly, he felt the truth of his thought very clearly.

The door opened and out stepped a fresh looking, impeccably dressed Draco. He was wearing all black, like this was the death of his comfort level. Harry grinned at his dramatics.

"Are you ready?" Harry asked, standing and reaching to the bridge of his nose before he stopped himself. _Oh yeah... I don't have glasses_.

"Not really, but I don't think you're giving me much of choice here," Draco muttered, brushing a piece of lint off of himself. He looked up, silver eyes flashing in the light of the sun streaming in from behind the curtains. Harry thought they were probably his best feature, his eyes. Even in school, Harry had always been attracted, for lack of a better word, to Draco's eyes. It was because even though his face said otherwise, Draco's eyes would always reveal his true emotions. When he feigned superiority, Harry could tell when something he had said bothered the smug bastard. It was probably the one thing that made Harry pity him back when he was still alive. Now, they were something Harry found himself staring at more often than not. While Harry still felt emotions, fiercely, there was a certain numbness to him, a shadow that covered him so that he was cut off from _being human_. Draco never lost that emotion in his eyes, even after all this time of being shut off.

"Okay... let's go then," Harry answered after he snapped himself back to the present. Draco pursed his lips, but followed the ghost when he opened Draco's door.

"What exactly are we doing... and where are we going?" Draco asked, body stiff. His arms were pressed firmly to his sides, while he kept glancing around, like he was trying to avoid running into anybody.

"I want you to give me a tour of your gardens," Harry smiled, though he knew the blonde couldn't see it.

"My gardens?" Draco asked lightly, thoughtful look on his face. "From what you've told me about stalking my mother, you've already seen the gardens."

"I didn't stalk your mother, I just... kinda... watched her garden for a bit. I would have alerted her to my presence if I could have," Harry said quickly, and it was Draco's turn to look smug.

"What_ever_ you say," the blonde said sarcastically. "Will my mother be there?" The thought sobered the blonde up a bit.

"Not this early," Harry replied. He thought he would start small. The first step was to get Draco to get out of his room. That was easy enough, thanks to his talent of horrible singing. He was glad he paid attention to Muggle movies when he was younger. That song would definitely come in handy. He would slowly introduce Draco back into the family, very gradually. The blonde seemed so reluctant to give his mother and father much of a chance, his father moreso. Harry couldn't exactly blame him. Lucius hadn't really been the ideal father, he was hardly an ideal _person._ Harry could tell that the war had changed Lucius as well, though, for the better.

Draco seemed relieved he wouldn't be facing his mother and the awkward silences that would inevitably happen. For what would they talk about? Harry almost laughed at the mental picture that made.

'Oh, Draco, how have you been?'

'Good, I've just been staring at my ceiling a lot and, you know, talking to dead people.'

'How lovely.'

'Yeah.'

The pair of unlikely friends made their way through the manor until they got to the glass doors of the entrance to the gardens. It was a sunny day, thankfully, and it was mid-summer, so all of the greenery was striking against the blue of the sky. Draco and Harry stood just outside of the back of the manor, and Harry took in the gardens like he always did. From here, it looked as if Draco were royalty. The gardens were large and well taken care of, pruned to a 'T'. The flower selection was _huge_, littered with the most simple flowers to exotic ones Harry had never seen before. There were statues all along the gardens, some that Harry couldn't make out because they were so far away. He was excited to hear about their history. He assumed Draco would know.

"So... are we going to move or are you imitating the statues?" Harry asked, and Draco rolled his eyes. They moved to the first row of flowers and Harry asked questions, while Draco answered. Just as Harry had thought, Draco's knowledge of the flowers and statues was perfect. The pair made it half way through the gardens before they came upon a statue that was interesting to Harry.

"Who are they?" Harry asked, looking at the intimate sculpture, white and immobile. Two lovers were entwined, a man holding a woman from behind. It looked like the woman was falling, and the man held her up as she grasped his arms. Her face was completely smitten and the man's gaze was soft. The woman was half naked, a breast peeking out from under her wispy clothing. It was rather romantic, if Harry would admit it to himself.

"She was a part of the Malfoy family," Draco touched the woman's arm as he said this, "Lumeria Malfoy. She wasn't important to the family, being a girl and not the heir. She brought great fortune to the Malfoy family, though, on accident, as it were. She saved his life. He fell in love with her and she with him. It turns out he was pureblood and very rich. The influence made the Malfoys even more favored than before."

"It's beautiful," Harry remarked, taking in the detail, reaching out with his see-through fingers, brushing the 'fabric' of the woman's dress.

"I didn't know you liked art," Draco commented, staring at the life-like figures. "Being a Gryffindor and all, I thought you too... brusque and Weasel-like to have an opinion about it."

"There are _a lot _of things you didn't and don't know about me because of your family's preconceived notions about me and the house I was sorted into. You know, the Weasleys _aren't _bad people. Plus, there are plenty of Gryffindors that weren't chivalrous or threw themselves into situations without thinking," Harry bit out, and threw a chilling glare at the blonde, hoping he could at least _feel_ his anger at the Malfoy's sheer ignorance. "Let me ask you this, do you actually _like_ art or is it something all Purebloods are _supposed _to prefer instead of doing normal things like spending time with your family or, Merlin forbid, getting a little dirt on yourself from honest, hard work?"

"I like art! Mother always said that art-"

"Your mother isn't you, Malfoy. Try again," Harry interrupted, voice low.

"The knowledge of art is a value that all Malfo-"

"_You_, Malfoy, I want to know if _you_ like art. Forget what you've been taught, forget what your parents said, and forget being Pureblood. Do you like art or not?" The brunette's tone was impatient and bordered on accusatory, making Draco feel like he was being made fun of. He was about to answer again, but held his tongue. He was going to say something about what his father had told him once. What _did_ he think about art? Did he like it? Did the knowledge of it make him happy?

"I... I just-" the blonde fumbled for words, looking to the ground in frustration. Taking a deep breath, instead of shouting about how Harry wouldn't know anything about it because he was Harry fucking Potter and best friends with a boy who thought his mother's knit sweaters were acceptable to wear in public, Draco thought about it. Past him would've already been teasing Harry about his lack of knowledge. In fact, past him wouldn't have even been out here, wouldn't have talked to Potter in the first place. But it was so_ irritating _that Harry had been able to crawl under his skin so easily. Past Draco would've known exactly what to say. This him, defenseless, wandering, didn't know a _thing_. It felt like being blind. Sighing, he answered slowly.

"I do like art. Not for the knowledge of it. Really, I could care less what movement was when or how things were done. I just like the ending product. I like evaluating art. I enjoy getting lost in a painting just as much as I enjoy getting lost in the words of a poem. Art as my father sees it is boring. He wants uniformity, black and white, old wizard portraits staring down their pureblood noses at you as you walk down the halls. I like the messy, thrown together things. I like impromptu _Muggle_ art-" Draco stopped there, silent. There. He'd said it. He liked something Muggle.

"Well, that wasn't so bad, was it? You're a rather romantic fellow, Malfoy, aren't you?" Harry inquired, smugly, and Draco could _hear_ the laughter in his voice. He scowled in the direction of said voice.

"You're lucky you aren't alive anymore_, Potter_, or you'd be so _dead_," the blonde snarled, stomping off.

"Wait," Harry exclaimed between chortles, "you haven't shown me the Gardenias! They'd go so well with your fair skin!"

* * *

><p>After Draco settled down, Harry asked him to show him the rest of the house. He agreed that Draco could avoid taking him to places he knew his parents might be. They were just getting to the kitchens when the blonde flattened himself against a wall. Harry might've thought it a bit comical, had he not seen who was coming. Lucius.<p>

Draco looked sufficiently panicked, holding his breath as his father neared. Really, what did he fear? That his father would...

That his father would expect him to be the same? That his father would force him to do things he never wanted to do? That his father would burden him with things he _knew_ he wouldn't be able to accomplish? Harry threw the blonde an empathetic look. Biting his lip, Harry nodded. He flickered from his spot in the hall into the room from which Lucius had come from... his office. Smirking to himself, Harry began throwing books from Lucius' shelf onto the floor, as hard as he could. The noise would most definitely alert Lucius to the fact that his precious office was being reorganized. Just as he thought, the office door was thrown open and Lucius looked around, bewildered.

"Wh- I don't-What the devil?" Lucius floundered for words, gripping his hair, surveying the books all over the floor and his desk. He circled the area, mouth wide open, looking for clues as to who might've done it, but Harry was already gone, urging Draco to _move it._

As they ran, er, Harry floated, rather, Draco barked out a laugh and then proceeded to break out into spontaneous giggling. If one asked Draco if he giggled, he would outright deny it, but Harry thought he sounded very child-like... it suited him. There was a light in his eyes as he ran, breathing ragged, trying to contain himself. His hair was askew, his eyes were wrinkled at the corners, and the normal stormy-grey color of them was tinged with silver. Harry laughed, too, remembering the look on Lucius' face.

They reached Draco's room and Draco shut the door behind him, sliding down it, trying to breathe.

"Did you _hear _the pitch of his voice when he spoke? I haven't heard him so confused in a long time. What did he look like?" Draco urged, grinning.

Harry snorted, "He looked crazy, that's what he looked like. He looked like he was going to pull his hair out!" Draco peeled into laughter again, tears springing to his eyes.

"That was _hilarious_," Draco breathed after he stopped laughing, sitting cross legged by his door. "We have to do something like that again."

"What? Pull pranks on your father? I'd love to, Malfoy, I didn't know you had it in you," Harry agreed, hovering over the carpet, legs crossed as well.

"As long as _I _can't get in trouble for it, why not? I've never been able to do anything to him like that," the blonde pondered, and smirked wickedly.

"That's very Slytherin of you," Harry commented, and Draco nodded sagely.

"Of course it is. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were a tad bit Slytherin yourself, Potter."

"Well, the Sorting Hat _did_ want to put me in Slytherin," Harry said, but threw his hand over his mouth after he'd said it. Draco arched a fine eyebrow, looking skeptical.

"Really? Saint Potter in Slytherin?"

"No, it was a joke," Harry covered quickly, hoping the Malfoy would believe him. He'd never really told many people that he was considered for Slytherin, mostly because of who he was and who people thought he could become.

"Something tells me you _aren't_ joking," the blonde announced, narrowing his eyes, "You always had that Gryffindor courage, but there were parts of you that were so _Slytherin_, I wondered why you weren't in my house. Then you opened your mouth," Draco looked pleased with himself and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Yes, all the intelligence that spilled forth from my lips made it impossible for me to be in Slytherin," Harry countered and watched the man in front of him grin a bit. He'd never seen the Malfoy smile so much in all his years, but Harry thought it suited him much better than the shit-eating grins he sported when they were still in school together.

"Did you ever want to be in Slytherin?" The question from Draco startled Harry.

"I don't suppose I ever did, no," Harry answered, "...but that was because people told me Slytherin was where all the bad people ended up. And, no offense, but none of your class really tried to deny it."

"No offense taken, we were badasses, what can I say?" the blonde said smugly and waited for Harry to continue.

"Yes, well, I think in light of recent events, I can say that I misjudged your house... and maybe there is a part of me that thinks about what it would have been like to have been in Slytherin. I think it would've been hard for me, because people would've thought I was just another Voldemort waiting for my chance. But when everyone realized I didn't plan on _turning bad_, my own house would've rejected me."

"We would've been friends," Draco said softly, looking around for any sign of the spirit, but he couldn't see him and that made Harry feel particularly lonely.

"I think maybe we would have," Harry nodded, and pursed his lips. "Are we friends now?"

Draco seemed to be debating with a part of himself for a few moments, looking down at the floor and pulling at a shoe string absently.

"I think so," the blonde answered after a while and the brunette seemed to sigh in relief. If Draco wasn't his friend, who else did he have in the world? "Don't let it get to your head, though, Potter. I'm _not_ anything like loyal Weasley or naìve Granger."

"I don't want you to be," Harry answered and it startled him to realize how true that was.

"Let's plan something to prank my father with," Draco grinned and picked himself up, going for a pen and some paper. Then he shivered, and made a face. "Ew, I sound ridiculously like a Gryffindor."

* * *

><p>Sirius Black was a mess.<p>

Everyone knew it. Even Sirius himself knew he was a mess and he hated himself for it. For who was he to mourn so long for friends he couldn't even save? The entire Potter family had come to ruins and Sirius might've been able to save them all, had he only been there but moments earlier. _Moments_, singular pieces of time that slipped through his fingers as if he were holding sand and held him back from saving a good family, the best people he'd ever known, that should've been _alive_.

"They were all so _fucking_ sacrificial," Sirius cussed to himself as he sanded the material of car, rubbing harshly to illustrate his terrible mood, using his hands to emphasize his point. "The lot of them! James stood in front of Lily, Lily stood in front of Harry, and Harry stood in front of everyone else!" It was good thing Sirius had started a private painting business, no workers around to stare at him strangely while he muttered crossly to himself. It had almost been two months since Harry's death and other people could mention him without breaking down... but not Sirius. Sure, the others were still upset. No one could get over a death in but a mere month and a half, but, to Sirius, it was like a wound that didn't heal.

"Sirius!" A voice interrupted his angry ranting to himself, and Sirius glanced up at Remus. Standing, he made his way over to his long-time best friend. He'd just moved in not too long ago and he'd been the only consistent, stable thing in Sirius' life. For that, Sirius couldn't explain his thankfulness. Remus smiled at him warmly, never with pity, as Molly did, or sadness, as Hermione did. It was just a warm smile that still left Sirius with some form of dignity. "I thought we could eat lunch together. They've let me out early for the day," the man commented, holding the door open for Sirius.

It had taken them some time, but they'd turned Grimmauld Place into a Muggle car painting service/home. They'd extended a garage, magically, of course, but the Muggles didn't know that. It worked out very well. Sirius mostly used the Muggle way of painting the vehicles, though sometimes, if he'd messed up too bad he'd use his wand. They had also cleaned out most of the house, which had distracted Sirius for a while, and redone most of the furnishing. Now, instead of a dark, dreary home, Grimmauld Place looked mildly inviting. Remus had taken Regulus' old room, and Sirius had taken back his own.

Remus himself worked for the Ministry, and had been christened a war hero. Sirius was glad for him, that people were accepting of him even after they all knew he was a werewolf. Since Severus wasn't making any more potions for him, Remus was having a rough time with his curse, but people were supporting him and that's all that mattered. He still took potions, but none were as good as the ones Severus had concocted. He truly was a potions _master_.

Smiling a bit to his longtime bestfriend, Sirius moved into the house to make his way to the dining room table. Remus had made them sandwiches with crisps on the side, and tea makings sitting in the middle of the table. Sirius looked at the werewolf again, and Remus smiled at him, warm and full of hope. It made Sirius feel even worse, because he here was Remus, trying to make him better, trying to make everything better and the Black wasn't even _trying_ to feel better. He was punishing himself, for what Remus said was never his fault. But Sirius couldn't help it. He felt personally responsible for the loss of all the Potters.

"You've been working really hard lately," Remus commented when they sat down, pouring hot water in a cup with a tea bag inside of it. He reached over to pour some for Sirius and glanced at him pointedly, expecting him to answer.

"There's been a lot of work for me, especially since summer is afoot," Sirius answered solemnly, dipping the tea bag to distribute the flavor in his cup. Remus sighed quietly and did the same, folding a napkin into his lap.

"Don't you think you should use some magic?" Remus asked, picking up a sliver of sandwich. He'd cut it into fours, like mini finger sandwiches, something that told of Remus's personality, neat, reserved, and calm. Sirius might've guessed he was like that because his wolf side was so feral and maybe Remus was overcompensating, like he assumed his feral side could spill over. Sirius hated that his friend still worried so much over his condition.

"It keeps my mind busy not to," Sirius replied, clipped. He hoped Remus would understand and quit scratching at wounds that hadn't even had a chance to heal yet. The werewolf cleared his throat a bit, looking down at his sandwiches and then looked back at Sirius.

Taking a breath, he said, "Sirius... We haven't really talked about... Harry since-"

"Remus, I cannot have this discussion with you," Sirius exclaimed, pushing his chair back with a loud screech.

"Sirius, I don't mean to hurt you," Remus said calmly and Sirius shook his head, moving away from the table and towards the hall leading to the front door. "We must talk about this, Sirius!" He heard from Remus before he slammed the door and paused at the top of the steps. Closing his eyes and holding his breath, Sirius counted to ten and then opened his eyes again, tears falling down his face.

Harry perked up from his position across the street from Grimmauld Place. He watched Sirius close his eyes and stand at the top of the stairs and then his godfather opened his eyes again, tears rolling down his cheeks, and then he was moving, away from the house, and Harry hadn't seen him leave the house for weeks. The spirit pushed himself away from the lamp post he had been leaning against since he had left Malfoy's and followed his godfather from across the street.

The man was walking briskly, not even pausing to say sorry to anyone he bumped into along the way. Harry's eyebrows furrowed and he crossed the street so that he was directly behind Sirius, close enough to see his black aura, tendrils of smoke ghosting about him, going through him. The man turned sharply and then, suddenly, apparated. Harry stopped dead in his tracks, but had been back as the dead long enough to know what to do. He focused his attentions on the aura he had seen previously, connecting dots until he traced Sirius's own unique signature and then followed.

Sirius was standing on the edge of a cliff, out looking a rocky ocean below, and beautiful, dark, stormy waves that looked darker than black stretching vastly, far and wide in the horizon. For a moment, Harry was concerned with Sirius' train of thought. Would he jump? But then Harry dismissed that thought because if he knew his godfather at all, he knew Sirius would not put any more grief on the people he loved and who loved him back. Sighing, Harry turned into ocean mist, letting the air carry him past Sirius, only for the wind to whip around and bring him beside the ex-Azkaban prisoner.

He stood beside him, overlooking the ocean and wondered to himself why he hadn't made himself go the beach before his death. The only memories he had of the ocean were frantic, fear-drowned flashes of the cave where the fake horcrux had been, where he was forced to make Dumbledore drink from the magical water surrounding the fake locket, where things dwelled that he did not wish to remember. Shaking his head, as if that would shake away those times, he tried to remember the scent. But he couldn't recall it, could only remember the smell of sweat and tears. The ocean was a beautiful thing, large and seemingly endless. What would happen if Harry chose to dive into those seas? Perhaps he would fade into the waters, so dark and deep they were that he would forget he existed and everything would just be nothingness, for the rest of eternity. He wouldn't have to hear his godfather's strangled hiccuping, or see the darkness of his aura or know that he was the cause of both of those things.

Then he thought of Draco, lost and alone, his would-be enemy. Draco had been so nice to him, letting him come to his house because the blonde was the only living thing that could hear him. And Harry had made a promise... to himself... that he would help the Slytherin get his family back in order. He could not submit to his utter grief.

"I'm so _sorry_," Sirius lamented and the wind carried his words and dispersed them out into the sea, where _they_, in Harry's place, would turn into nothingness.

Sometimes Harry grieved for Sirius, though Harry wasn't the one who had lost anyone he loved. Yet, he had lost _himself_. Perhaps he mourned the person he used to be, filled with valor and kindness and strength, to this thing he had become now, bitter and _cold_, but still so helplessly guilty about everything.

"I cannot bring myself, back, Sirius," the brunette whispered, though Harry knew his godfather couldn't hear him, "but I will be with you always. I hope that someday you can think of me fondly, instead of with sadness. I never learned how to think of my parents fondly when I was still alive... I continued to mourn them until the very last. I wish I had given them some relief."

Silence reigned and the two men stood side by side, one crouched over in grief, the other standing straight in acceptance, and Harry's whisper began to wander.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Thank you so much for your feedback, everyone who reviewed. I really appreciate it very much. :D


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